


The Fall Of Sir Boast-A-Lot

by Jimlockian



Series: Prompts [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medieval AU - The story of a manipulative, young nobleman named James Moriarty, an aristocratic pair of brothers from the Holmes clan, a kindly King, and a brave young knight called Sir John Watson.  What happens when Sherlock falls, and John is left in Viscount Moriarty's hands?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Medieval AU Prompt: Little_R
> 
> Prompt: Medieval AU of RBF. After "Sir Boast-A-Lot"'s fall (not necessarily literally) it means sadly for his friend John that the victor goes to the spoils. Johniarty. 
> 
> (Rating: Teen... for now  
> Warnings: Character death)
> 
> Beta'd by Alisha (take-it-away-ernie), who deserves cake.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a manipulative, young, up and coming Viscount, an aristocratic pair of brothers, and a brave young knight. Their story has long since been forgotten, but their memories remain. Sometimes, if you listen carefully in the right, old, decrepit castle you can hear them as if they were still walking around..

* * *

 

The Lord Chancellor of England walked through the outer halls in a quick step. The wear on his face and his receding hairline made him appear older than he truly was. His trusty cane in hand, the aristocrat moved as swiftly as possible toward the sunshine filled expanse before him. The finely attired man dressed in black walked forward into the light, before him a long stretch of dirt with a log-post fence in the middle, running down the length of it.  
  
There was a small stage before it with seats for the nobler folk to watch the action. A few servants stood by with horses, some holding gear for riders. A well fitted knight was preparing his jumpy looking gray spotted mount, patting the horse while his page boy stood by holding his two-man long jousting sword.  
  
“Lord Chancellor.” Murmured a man as he passed, striding onto the field and up to the next waiting rider with clear stubborn determination.

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes earlier.  
  
“Prepare my mount!” Cries a silken voice before turning back to the man he had been speaking to moments earlier. “They doubt me, John.” Hisses the well dressed noble in riding gear, preparing to put on his finer pieces as he talks with his bravest knight, John. Sherlock Holmes wears thick gear and noble bronze is etched into his armor in wide stripes.  
  
Sir John Watson is a man of lesser birth who rose through the ranks with service to his Lordship. He wears a red and yellow diamond checkered shirt with billowing red sleeves and black trousers, a bit baggy as such looseness is presently in fashion. The colors he bears are those of the Holmes household, those he serves dutifully, though now he has his own small property and a small but respectable title.  
  
“He makes them doubt me.” Sherlock shakes his head, the lengthy black tresses moving with him. “Ideas cannot be destroyed.”  
  
John points out with a gentle but brusque honesty befitting both his station and closeness with his master, “Everyone who's intelligent knows who you really are.” Sherlock was known for being peculiar and eccentric, known for his deductive skills and a manner that locals called 'silver minded, not silver tongued.'  
  
“Exactly. I know it well, but nobody else seems to.” Sherlock huffs under his breath, not at all confident in his fellow man. “I must face him to stop these rumors.” He says with a nobler air than the man usually wears, for though born with a silver spoon in his mouth the younger Holmes is not at all a nobleman by his graces except for certain displays of finesse, such as this.

“Sir Holmes, he is a dangerous adversary.” John murmurs reluctantly. It is not his place to speak his mind, but when no one overhears them he has a strange rapport with the aristocrat.  
  
“I have never much cared for what other people think, but I will not be another witch at the stake sacrificed for ignorance's sake.” Sherlock's eloquence can make him appear so much a poet at times.

“Then do your best.” John gives him a small smile, knowing better than to say much else. One utterance from someone of his station is enough for Holmes to pardon for sake of their friendship, as usual. John adores his Master in more ways than one.  
  
“Hither to comes my brother.” Sherlock murmurs to John, getting the other man to knowingly grin a little. John quickly tries to stifle the expression as Sherlock remarks with quiet foreboding, “Watch his fits.”

* * *

 

  
Across the length of the dirt pitch stands Viscount James Moriarty, pulling on thin black leather gloves to wear under his heavy set metal ones. The well shined armor fits his slender form well, though his is a darker color of more gray than silver. He smirks as he recalls the small niggling doubts he earlier planted that have only just come to fruition.  
  
Sir Sherlock Holmes is seething, he can tell at a glance from those bright eyes. The two have been sparring as they believe themselves to be the only superior intellects in the country. Yet now James has the upper hand as he has all the King's court believing Sherlock's superiority is one great big lie. It was all too easy to plant such a thought, too.  
  
To regain his honor the pale aristocrat had challenged him to a joust with both agreeing to equitable terms. The very idea made James' eyes sparkle, because he has little to lose.

* * *

  
Lord Mycroft approaches with a gait befitting the dignity of his post, even if it is rather quick. He looks with irate eyes, and a voice that tries equally little to hide his displeasure. “Stop this at once.”  
  
Sherlock looks with cool eyes and pats his horse on the nose as he ignores his brother to soothe the animal. His stallion is a bit less jumpy though he has still not warmed up.

“You are squabbling with a powerful young man who I think would have no difficulty cutting throats to advance.” Mycroft continues in a harsh yet lowered voice so that they will not be overheard. His eyes are stark as his sibling's, but his passion always seems tainted from his position, while Sherlock remains pure with his true to himself nature, even if that lead to an inflated ego. John highly prefers the young Master to the elder Lord Chancellor.

“If you do not cease this I will order you!” The well crafted expression snaps in anger though his voice is still somewhat muted to not carry on the wind. He is loathe to make a spectacle of himself out there in public, and neither will he let his sibling.  
  
Sherlock glares at him and takes a firm hold of his stallion's reins. John knows he is going to mount the animal before the man moves a muscle. Sherlock swings his leg over the equine and adjusts himself in the low seat, looking assertively to his kin. “I'd like to see you try.”

Mycroft sighs as his younger sibling kicks his mount in the side and moves away from them. He has no wife, and thus no heir other than his younger brother. Looking after Sherlock has, in many ways, become his only life outside his work. Now he has to see the little boy he watched become a man ride away.

* * *

 

  
'Sir Boast A Lot,' Mouthes Moriarty from across the pitch, looking bemused as he wields the lofty nickname and holds his helmet in hand. The smugness of him permeates across to Sherlock who looks on with a narrow gaze. He chuckles and says something to his page, but with his angled body Sherlock cannot read his lips.  
  
Sherlock tugs gently on the reins of his mount, getting him into position. He holds out his hand for his lengthy royal blue lance. There are no woman's favors on it, and there never will be for he seeks none – if it were permissible he would wear John's on the end, but such remains in the shadows, only between them.  
  
James puts on his silver-sheened helmet with large purple plumes and a single peacock feather. His lance is ornately painted, black based with white and gray laid over top. Once held in his hand he moves his white steed with a click of his tongue and the two riders stand at opposite ends of the dirt track.  
  
“Let this hastilude begin!” Cries the King standing to the side, dropping down a handkerchief so that it fell onto the dirt. Both men kick their horses in the sides as it starts to fall, moving ahead as quick as their animals could.  
  
The two stallions rush forward on opposite sides of the lengthy, short fence. Both men aim their lance over the fence at the other as they rush ahead through hoof beats and loud cheers from the crowd. Sherlock pants softly, assured and calm as he reads his enemy's movements. He is an excellent jouster, appearing made for it with his tall, fit body, and excellent horsemanship, but his mind is what makes him a stunning opponent because he can read his challenger's movements.

At least normally Sir Holmes can. Viscount James Moriarty is as equally bright minded, but worse, he is changeable. His last minute alteration is therefore not predicted by Sherlock, and so James' lance drives ahead and hits Sherlock's helmet while Sherlock's lance only grazes James' side.  
  
Moriarty is a deft hand with a lance. His hit is hard and true, nailing Sherlock with the harsh blunt wood and knocking him off his mount. The horse rides on while its rider falls into the dust, leaving the crowd gasping and holding its breath.

Several men run to the fallen figure as James' ride slows down as it reaches the other end. The graze jostled him, but he easily held his own. At the end he dismounts and slowly walks toward the middle of the chaos.  
  
John is the first to be there at his side, and Mycroft comes not moments after him in a rush from the stands. Sherlock's visor is carefully lifted, and the bloody mess underneath hardly resembled the handsome cut figure they both know.  
  
“Get him inside, quickly!” Cries someone as they all rush in a flurry of activity to get the unconscious figure inside. A large red puddle is left in his wake to mark the spot he fell, at least until pages with brooms can sweep it up into the dust later on.  
  
Blood is flowing from Sherlock's nose and ears. His ragged breathing lasts only minutes longer and by the time they have him inside, lain out on a table, his pulse has stopped. The physician had done what he could in the sparse time allotted to him but the injuries were too great.

For a few minutes John and Mycroft stand in stunned silence, unable to believe this larger than life figure could be gone. Both feel their eyes wet though neither lets their tears fall.  
  
“God's opportunity is man's extremity..” Murmurs Mycroft with a hint of despondency in his voice as he looks upon the fallen figure with a blood-riddled face. Sherlock's body looks pale as if waning before his elder brother. The last crescent of a brilliant moon.

John says nothing for the welling up in his throat, effectively stopping him up like a cork. He looks upon the man he has called a Master, a best friend, and secretly a lover, and mourns a depth that few would be able to fathom. Not that John could ever share this fact with anyone else.  
  
A sound brings the melancholy pair out of their sorrowful reverie. Footsteps on the cobbled steps, someone coming in. John turns and finds himself looking with great loathing upon the helmetless dark armored figure of Viscount Moriarty.  
  
“Come on.” James says to John, still looking bemused. It was lending him a morbid air, as few would feel victorious for 'accidentally' killing an opponent in a gentlemanly sport.  
  
At John's blank look James just shakes his head, so amused with his enemy – Sherlock must have felt so confident he had said nothing. “We had a bet on.”  
  
John looks at Mycroft standing there, open mouthed at the idea of it.  
  
“His lad will tell you,” Moriarty says to Mycroft, ignoring John's perplexed state. “But all his estates, holdings, and servants are to be mine.” Then his eyes turn back to John, and the smirk James holds makes him so nauseated that he has to leave the room in a hurry or risking losing his dinner all over the shoes of his betters.


	2. The Great Bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to include more ideas received in future chapters but for now I hit: TGG quotes, James telling John the truth, angry John, and Mycroft/Lestrade is introduced (Little_R & Anonymus)..
> 
> This chapter not yet beta'd, I just got super eager.

The inner sanctum of the King's quarters for meeting his men has stone masonry work on three walls, and a wood paneling on the innermost wall. One stone wall has a lovely fireplace that crackles, warming the evening air. The wooden floor polished to a state of gleaming every night for the regal feet who stood upon it.  
  
The King had gone gray before the age of thirty, though he is well beyond a decade there. He brought his kingdom through plague after much of the Kingdom, parents included, died of it. Yet he became such a benevolent and strong leader that all his subjects are pleased to be a part of King Lestrade's court.  
  
“Ah, Lord Chancellor,” Remarks the King, turning toward the other man as he enters through the doorway. Out in the hall stand two guards who have let in the regally attired man that now bows before the King, dressed in black, in full mourning for his brother Sherlock.  
  
“My condolence on your loss.” The King says kindly for he knew that though they could argue and let trivial matters come betwixt them, the two brothers had still been thick as thieves where it counted. At least it seemed so when he looked at Mycroft Holmes.  
  
“I have not come about stately matters, sire, but with a question of Sir Watson..” Mycroft begins and as he sees the King's comprehension he quiets and defers to the lordly man.  
  
The King steps in as the place is left for him, as is custom as the superior. “I pity Sir Watson, for he is a loyal subject. What service may we do him?"

Even though he is Lord Chancellor once it came right down to it, Mycroft had to let John go to James. Then he moved to prepare funeral arrangements. Later, after looking into it himself, he could not find much way around it.  
  
“It is a problem of legality, my liege. Battle rewards warranted an improvement upon his title so that he is already possessing a knighthood, and from our estate we hold lands owing to him.” The King nods that he may continue and Mycroft goes on, “My brother had moved forward with ceasing Sir Watson's position of serfdom, but that was awaiting finalization, including signature.”  
  
A displeased sigh left the King at that news, “How much was owing for his position?”  
  
“Two thousand crowns still, though the contract worded it to be paid in work up to the discretion of the landholder. Now that land has changed hands, so has he.” Mycroft exhales out and says carefully, “My brother was particularly fond of this servant and seeing him advance, I feel I owe it to tie this loose thread.”  
  
“Quite right.” Replies the King who can easily see the loyalty that so rarely shows itself. Perhaps grief is turning his eyes a little more transparent. “Then he legally does belong to Viscount Moriarty, did you say?”  
  
“Yes, your highness.” Affirms Lord Mycroft as he stands before the man who he has come to know after ascending the political ranks, and now having aged alongside him. More than ever before Mycroft feels his age setting in like a foreboding cloud as he stands as the last of his house.

“We shall see.” Murmurs the King with a nod to his faithful subject, who bows and whispers his words of thanks before leaving.

* * *

  
Since Viscount Moriarty is visiting at court he resides within the castle, in one of the many elite guest rooms for the upper class gentry. John only has to follow him back inside, where he fumes while listening to a servant tell him the basics. It is not the other man, but his grief that drives him as no fuel is richer than that.  
  
The man he knew as no one else is gone now. Sherlock Holmes – Sir Holmes when someone was listening, and later Sherlock when no one else was there. They had started doing an awful lot of things when no one was there to overhear..  
  
 _They met one night just off the battlefield, as John Watson lay wounded in a tent. He faded in and out of consciousness, but once while he was more aware he found the most gorgeous man he had ever seen standing over him like some pale angel._  
  
 _“Just checking in.” Remarked the man as he looked John over._  
  
 _“Who're you?” John forgot himself in his confused state and openly spoke out of turn._  
  
 _“Stratagem advisor.” He replied before adding more seriously, almost mockingly of someone, “Everyone has to help the effort.”_  
  
 _“ Stratagem advisor?” John asked perplexedly._  
  
 _“Only one in the world.” Sherlock would later explain his brother had insisted he do something and so he created his own position like a chess master of the battlefield. He nodded to John, “Your shoulder is gravely injured but you'll be fine. You can't stay here. Come to the main Holmes estate when you're released.”_  
  
 _“They tell me I will be back in battle..” John began to reply before the man with hair like night cuts him off._  
  
 _“No. Declared unfit for service, in, say, a fortnight.”_  
  
And as Sherlock said, it would come to pass that John left his post for they did not feel him useful, though his bravery was rewarded. The wound was worse than anticipated, as was his leg. With nowhere to turn he had taken the mysterious man up on his offer and entered into a contractual service.  
  
Now that bonded service left him trapped like a rabbit in a snare. Even with title still there he had a debt to be paid, and legally James now held that debt. The thought of the man had him seething, and when James finally walked in it boiled over in John's eyes.  
  
“Leave us.” James said to the other servant, standing there without his armor and riding gear. Still in finery, but finery meant to be worn about the house – tighter trousers, an embroidered vest, and layers of garments. His short cut hair leaves nothing hidden, every quirk of his lips and crease in his brow there before John's discerning eyes.  
  
“This is a turn up, isn't it, John?” James asks once they are alone and his new servant is fighting not to glare at his new Master and losing.  
  
“What do you want me to do, sir?” John asks shortly, wanting to get the evening over with.  
  
Those pale pink lips of Jim's quirk, the perfect brows arching up as he looks upon distraught John. “I thought we might talk.” His eyes mischievous and they set John on edge.  
  
Though with an opening clearly given to speak John decides to take it, as his blood is still boiling over from the sight of Sherlock's dead body which is stained glass on his retina. “May I ask what was the bet?” John murmurs insistently, needing to know why Sherlock had to die. “My Lord.” John stiffly adds, knowing his place.  
  
“We loved matching wits as you well know.” Knowing how lengthy the explanation is he decides to seat himself and lounges back leisurely. “I like to dabble in certain things, and he liked to try undoing them. This quarrel was twenty years in the making, if you were presently unaware.”  
  
“I know you quarrel awfully with him–” He ought not use such language with a man of James Moriarty's standing but the man has witnessed death and has not yet grieved, and is quite a powder keg just waiting for a spark. “- your sparring is legendary. I was especially amused when Sir Sherlock Holmes found that the Duccio you gave His Lordship was a fake.”  
  
“Still a beautiful landscape.” James does not appear too put out by the effrontery remark that most would jump at. “Hitherto we have been at odds, and recently I have shown that some of his deductions may not be so honorable.”  
  
“What say you?” John asks with baited breath.  
  
“The Lady Rothsberg, who was believed to be widowed, yet Sir Holmes deduced that she had hidden her husband to keep him from service..”  
  
“Yes, they would draw her widow's pension and run away together. I recall.” John replies, for he had actually been there at the time Sherlock found the two lovers.  
  
“I merely suggested there may have been other reasons he knew the old Lord was at home.” James says with a lascivious gleam in his eyes and John widens his own gaze – his true Master's honor was threatened, because people would not believe he could be so clever to solve such a case from minor details alone.. that he must have been bedding the lady in question.

“You bastard!” John whispers it harshly, but the words are still said to his blue blooded superior. “Then the bet-?”  
  
“Oh! Good.” He chuckles under his breath, “Very good.” James murmurs to himself before chuckling. In a mockingly noble voice he adds, “Watch yourself..” Before returning to a more serious reply while looking on John with studious eyes, “You're sweet. I can see why he liked having you around. So touching and loyal.” Teasingly murmurs the man sitting down, watching him with a snide look in his dark eyes that swirl like pools of amber under a lit flame. “I bet to restore his honor by admitting that I helped the Lord and Lady Rothsberg plan their escape. He bet his lands, servants, and all debts owing to him.”

“All this for honor?” John asks breathlessly, uncertain whether to laugh or scream at the absurdity of their fencing match of a battle. Sherlock had died to prove his rightness on matters he deconstructed to the awe of his fellow men. “No one had ever gotten to you before, had they?”  
  
“Yes.. Although,” James sighs with a wistful air that John finds himself hating, “I have loved this.. This little game of ours.” He shakes his head as the opponent he had enjoyed is now food for maggots. Ah well.  
  
“He's died!” John shouts indignantly as the memory of the man he adores and placed on a pedestal for the past few years is belittle.  
  
“That's what people do!” James shouts, standing up and glaring intensely. The pernicious eyes are threatening to tear John apart, and John meets them gladly because his world is already thoroughly shredded.

At that outburst John cannot hold in his own shout any long, “Why did you have to take it that far?!” His eyes threaten like heaving clouds bearing down great weight.  
  
Instead of becoming more irate James only calms down with the passing moments. “Why does anyone do anything?” He shakes his head and the movement reminds John of a snake. “We were bored.. We were meant for each other.” He chuckles.

At that eloquent laughter John's neck burns because he has a feeling that James' comment was meant in a sensual manner, and he tells himself it is irrational thinking from grief, but his neck still burns red in mounting anger. “I will stop you.” He promises in a gentle whisper, “I will tell them and everyone will know.”

“No you won't.” James shakes his head and shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, “And even if you did I could find any way to scandalize him if I wanted. Too boring.” His threatening voice drops to a whisper, “I have higher sights than that now, Johnny.”  
  
“Am I included in that vision?” John asks in a strict tone while firming his stance. He ought know better than to let the Viscount goad him into doing or saying anything quite so foolish.  
  
“You can't be allowed to continue as you are, and I did acquire all debts owing to Sir Holmes.” James jovially points out as if preening as the other man tries to gather his wits about him. “You're going to be my servant and you're going to enjoy it. I would try to convince you,” He looks sharply into the other man's big brown eyes that have been warm up until this dark day and now it seems that someone has snuffed out the light behind them and hardened him to the world, “.. but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”  
  
“Probably my answer has crossed yours.” John replies stiffly before bowing low to the man he was now forced to serve. They both knew John would fight to clear Sir Holmes' name. “If I can be of no further use, sir.” John turns to take his leave when James fails to stop him, heading down to the servants' hall with thick anger and a heavier heart.  
  
If John knew one thing in this lifetime it was this; Sherlock was better than anyone could imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is now going on for 4-5 chapters most likely instead, and expanding to include Mystrade (my first time doing one of those, not sure how it got in my prompt box but hey I'll field it).
> 
> Continue to send [ideas for this story here](http://jimlockian.tumblr.com/ask) or in comments, and I shall incorporate them. This is a fangasm of ideas.


	3. Latter Days

King Lestrade strides into the hall from an afternoon's ride when he is informed by a humble man of his house that his Lord Chancellor has arrived earlier then expected. Instead of telling the servant to have Mycroft wait while he changes, as almost all others would have done, the elder Holmes is brought into his stately quarters...  
  
“I apologize, sire.” Mycroft bows low for the earliness of his intrusion as the King enters from another doorway.

“Be at ease.” The ruler begins with a heaviness in his voice that does not bode well for the other man, and he knows it is ill news for his departed brother's servant. “After much deliberation I hath found nothing to be done short of altering law.” He looks with a firm assurance – knowing it is morally wrong, but legally right. “The witnesses brought forth are credible, thus the bet legally binding, on your brother's honor as a gentleman.”

Mycroft is set in silence for the first time. His royal Liege's eyes widen at such emptiness when the Lord Chancellor always seemed to have a quick answer to everything. Finally there came a smoke-like voice out of the quiet, “Is there nothing to be done?” He draws in a breath and tries to distance himself more from his words, jaw clenching in the process. “I feel my brother's honor unfairly soiled.”  
  
The serpentine ring to his favorite servant lessens the ease of King Lestrade's heart. He speaks with firm pride, “He died well, riding as a gentleman, and no man can fault him.”  
  
“They can and do, my Lord, and I have nary a word to stop it.” Mycroft replies with a sigh before shaking his head dismissively. “Pardon me, sire.” He ought not have refuted royal words, no matter how heavy his heart.  
  
King Lestrade licks his lower lip in consideration, “As for Viscount Moriarty, I have been watching that young buck.” He draws in a breath before sighing it back out, “Long has he been a dark presence haunting my court..”  
  
“I quite disapproved of his behavior.” Mycroft snaps too quickly, and he as soon as the words leave him he hears how bitter he sounds. The composed figure clears his throat and forces his voice to gentler depths, “He showed none of the sympathies of a proper gentleman, your highness.” Still, recalling his brother's fall brought a grating quality to his voice and set a harshness in his eyes.  
  
It is a harshness that King Lestrade does not approve of. He found himself reconsidering as his Chancellor's seams came undone before his eyes. “I will see if parliament may act to improve, my Lord Chancellor.”  
  
Thin lips quake for a moment from the offer, which is a great gesture in his eyes. “You humble me deeply to take such care, my liege.” Mycroft immediately dips into a reverent bow as his eyelids scrunch with emotion.  
  
Lestrade politely overlooks that it took longer than usual for Mycroft to straighten, and that when he does his eyes are glassier. “If I cared not for my people what sort of ruler would I be?” He gives a small, comforting smile to the lowlier man, speaking with the utmost respect, “You bear my honor, Lord Chancellor.”  
  
“With the greatest love, your highness." The Chancellor nearly whispers in response. When Mycroft says it Lestrade's eyes seem softer and his smile grows to a genuine lopsided one that he only gives when he stops focusing on his presentation as a royal visage.

Everyone says they love the King - for that is a subject's duty and privilege – so his words are not out of place, but when Mycroft says it, it never sounds like something a servant should say. Never.

* * *

 

John expected agony from being Viscount Moriarty's servant. Instead he found the household to his liking, and the servants were nice enough. The servants hall always bustling from the activity of such a large estate, but that only made John feel less lonely. A lucky thing indeed, because as he settled in he also mourned in near silence.  
  
A servant may mourn for a Master or Mistress, tis true, but John's heart mourns for a lover. Every turn of his body and there is some object reminding him of the observant aristocrat. With each shake of his head a new thought about Sherlock pops up, another memory, or whispers from the man within his mind. Sometimes he would begin tearing up and slide away from his duties to find a corner to gather himself in.

John's moist gaze blurred as he grappled with a door handle, the old thing stuck. He fumbled and released an exasperated sigh, pushing his good shoulder against it. The upper crust servant closed the library door behind him, leaning against him. He remembered Sherlock after they first got together and it made him ache knowing the bloom of their romance was snuffed out by a sudden cold snap.  
 _  
"Good morrow, Sir Watson."_

_The voice came from behind him, so John had to turn and look over his shoulder at the approaching figure standing tall and proud behind him. His eyes went to and fro, checking for signs of any others there in the field. John had taken a book out and curled up at the base of a great tree, but he set the novel aside in favor of amicably greeting Sherlock Holmes._

_The noble walked around the tree slightly, looking out over the waving grass. He always observed the world as if he were simply a part of it, instead of a man that owned quite a lot of properties for miles around. Sherlock had an attitude unlike anything John had seen – in any class of person. Nothing was ever his to own – only his to understand._   
  
_John looks upon the well dressed figure as his boots move through the dirt. His eyes rise with slow appreciation up Sherlock's figure, falling to the bare patches of pale English skin and a face crafted by angels out of marble._   
  
_"It is unfair of you." John sighs dreamily, looking away with a small, knowing smile. He enjoys private moments like this, where they can speak their mind to each other. Sherlock gives him a perplexed look with the barest hint of concern that something might be wrong. John's smile spreads and enlarges as he finishes his thought, “To be so beautiful and intelligent."_

_An amused scoff is caught in his throat as the younger Holmes lowers himself down to the grass beside John. "What am I like?" Sherlock will accept the latter, but beautiful is something else to him, as John well knows. Intellect he accepts, but Sherlock has been shunned too long to relate himself to a societal concept like beauty._   
  
_John shifts so that there is room for Holmes to lean his back against the bark, too. "An angel that shall be unfit for earthly ground." He feels a bit like a young man complimenting his first débutante. Sherlock's large doubtful eyes beg him to continue. John whispers reverently, "A mythical creature of old, perhaps some siren."_

_Sherlock gently pulls John off the tree and into his arms, letting the stouter man rest his back against Sherlock's chest. "Is that a roundabout way to establish my caustic tongue as well?" Now his mouth is beside John's ear, that low voice like wax dripping down his spine._  
  
 _John only needs to turn his head and angle his chest slightly to look right up into his Master's eyes. "Hardly." His words fall softer as he leans in, "If anything I am lured in by your song, but bring me that tongue that I might check its sharpness myself." He punctuates the sentence with a soft kiss._  
  
That was weeks ago.  
  
John's unaware of anything but his thoughts that were once so bright now blinding him with the contrasting darkness he faced looming before him. The path ahead that of grief - full of brambles, overgrown from disuse until a person least expects, and burdensome on the feet. His drawn tortured eyes displaying raw grief in these quiet moments alone. John finally lets tears fall.  
  
Except that he is not alone as the Master of the estate has been in the room this whole time. He waited at first to turn around in his chair, and by then John was long gone so James could quietly observe him. Finally, with his brows rising in shock, he could not help but whisper, “Good God, man.. Did you love him?”


End file.
